


(Let's Be) The Boys Time Can't Catch

by riverlight



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Cigarettes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:03:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlight/pseuds/riverlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad's got a goal he’s working towards, and he weighs all his options against whether they’ll help him reach it or not. Anything else is extraneous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Let's Be) The Boys Time Can't Catch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PJVilar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PJVilar/gifts).



The class is called something ridiculous, one of those pretentious names with a colon followed by a three-word subtitle: _Capitalism, Class Conflict, and Culture,_ maybe, or _Controversy, Chaos, and—_

—“cunts,” Ray says, before Brad can finish the thought. “Cunts, Brad; it’s all about pussy, come on, you can pretend politics is motivated by ideals all you want, but it’s all old white dudes, of course it’s pussy that gets them going,” but Ray’s bullshit aside, Brad is willing to overlook the fucking ridiculous name and the course description filled with useless verbiage (“an exploration of post-colonial hegemonic regimes and the politics of self-interested state-centered intervention,” what the fuck ever) because buried somewhere beneath the academic pomposity is a class that Brad thinks is not only relevant to his interests but one that he won’t actively hate.

“What the fuck kind of hippie communist feel-good institution boasts that it has no college-wide course requirements except one in ‘critical political thought’?” Brad asks, rhetorically. He and Ray have already had this argument. Doesn’t stop him being annoyed about it, though; if he’s going to TA a class, he’d rather it not be full of students who are taking the class just to fulfill a requirement. That’s no fun for anybody.

Ray rolls his eyes. “You could have gone to USC, Brad, but you chose to come to New England, you have no one to blame but yourself,” Ray says. Which is true, fuck Brad very much, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. 

“I wasn’t signing up for this kumbayah bullshit,” Brad grumbles, even though it’s a pointless objection. Fuck. At least the professor didn’t use those post-modern middle-of-a-word parentheses; maybe that’ll weed out a bunch of the more pretentious wealthy white kids committed to social justice, quote-unquote. Maybe. If he’s lucky. 

Ray just shoves his shoulder. “Yeah, whatever, homes,” he says. “At least they’re paying you. The rest of us are poor-ass undergraduates living on student loans whose sole purpose is to enslave us to the exploitative capitalist system, so: zero sympathy.” 

“Well, Ray,” Brad says, not looking away from the course catalogue, “when you’re a grad student, you too can TA for asshole professors for the kingly sum of five grand a semester. But they only want real men whose balls have dropped, so I guess you’re shit outta luck.” 

“You only wish you had balls like mine,” Ray says, nonsensically, and Brad rolls his eyes. Ray shoves at Brad’s shoulder. “You wanna play a game, or what?” 

“All right, fine,” Brad says, and puts the question of course selection out of his mind for a couple of hours.

* * *

Brad’s had a strategic plan for his academic career since he was fifteen. Graduate high school. Get into a top-tier university, with a scholarship. Summer internships, a heavy course load, cum laude status if he could manage it. Grad school, a prestigious fellowship, then his doctorate. It makes it easier, when it comes time to pick classes; he’s got a goal he’s working towards, and he weighs all his options against whether they’ll help him reach it or not. Anything else is extraneous.

He’s not there yet, but he’s making progress. 

For some goddamned ridiculous reason, the semester starts mid-week, so the first class Brad has is the one he’ll be TAing. “Good to see you, Brad,” Quinter says, when Brad finds him in Mehler Hall fifteen minutes before the first class begins. Brad’s been his teaching assistant before, so Quinter had emailed and told him not to worry about meeting beforehand; that’s fine with Brad, frankly.

“Good to see you, sir,” Brad says. “How are you?”

Quinter grins. He’s a genial kind of guy, bluff, with a craggy face and sharp eyes behind stylish glasses; Brad likes him. “Am I ever going to convince you to call me Geoff, Brad?” he asks, and Brad grins back. 

“Probably not, sir, but you can live in hope,” Brad says. 

“If I’m engaging in such a pointless practice, I’m going to save my energy to hope that this year the freshmen actually manage to write college-level papers,” Quinter says, wry.

Brad grins and says, “Yeah, good luck with that, sir,” and Quinter laughs and hands Brad a stack of syllabi. 

The class is actually called “The Politics of Military Intervention: Capitalism, Conflict, and Culture,” it turns out, so: marginally better than what Brad’d been calling it in his head. And, he discovers when Quinter takes roll, while it’s nominally an intro class, the students all seem to be sophomores or juniors. 

Not as bad as he’d expected, then, though it still remains to be seen whether it’s an utter waste of his time. Brad isn’t holding out much hope.

* * *

Since he’s graduate-level, his seminars all meet once a week for three hours; he’s got American Foreign Policy 1968–1998 on Mondays in the morning, TAinging for Quinter on Monday afternoon, Advanced Policy Seminar on Tuesday mornings, his small-group session for Quinter on Tuesday afternoon, Quinter’s class again Wednesday afternoon, and Money and Power on Thursday morning. It’s easy to feel like he’s got plenty of free time now, but he knows from experience how quickly the work will expand to take over any spare moments; plus, that’s not even counting the time he needs to put into his thesis. At least he gets a long weekend; plenty of time to get work done.

Still, he likes it, this period early in the semester when he hasn’t quite settled into a routine yet, when he doesn’t know which professors are good, which classes might kick his ass. He likes the potential of it. Later’s fun, too, when he’s immersed in it and neck-deep in research and reading and discussion, but this is nice. Brad breathes in the early-autumn smell of crisp air and turning leaves and heads across campus to brave the crowds at the bookstore.

* * *

Brad met Ray his first year as a grad student; Ray’s a media studies undergrad, which basically means he’d normally never have crossed paths with Brad, except he was dating the friend of a girl Brad was seeing for a while. “Hey, homes, whattup?” Ray had said to him, the first time they met, and Brad’d taken one look at him—short, dark eyes, mobile mouth, Southern drawl of some kind—and said, “What kind of white boy says ‘homes?’ You’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” cutting, dismissive. Except Ray had just made an exaggerated mock-impressed face and said, “I actually _am_ from Kansas, homes, good guess,” and then treated Brad to a ten-minute monologue about racially-coded vernaculars and American dialects and the oppressive nature of normative grammar rules before Cady finished writing her last few paragraphs and came to pull him away.

How that ended up with them being friends he doesn’t quite know, but somehow it happened. He can’t bring himself to mind very much. Ray’s not, it turns out, a total waste of space.

Ray’s sitting at his kitchen table when he gets home. Brad has a studio apartment in a 1970s-era apartment block just off the western edge of campus; it’s tiny and pretty grungy, but it’s convenient to both Mehler and the library, and a ten-minute walk from the athletic center, so Brad figures it evens out. Ray doesn’t legally have any right to a key, but what his landlord doesn’t know won’t hurt him, Brad figures, and after the third time he caught Ray jimmying the door while high he gave in to logic and got his key copied.

“Hey, homes,” Ray says, and grins at him, his mouth still full of half-chewed pizza. “You take over any third-world countries today?”

“I’ve told you, Ray, we call them developing nations now,” Brad says, mildly, and snags a beer out of his fridge. “And, no. That’s reserved for after I graduate, and it’ll be America I’m taking over, not some backwater banana republic.”

“Fuck yeah,” Ray says, in apparent agreement, and snatches Brad’s beer out of his hands to take a swig. 

Brad slaps him upside the head. “Remind me why the fuck I put up with you, Person?” he says.

“You love me, Brad, don’t front,” Ray says, leering. Brad sighs and gets out another beer.

* * *

By the end of the first week of classes, Brad has determined that Money and Power is going to be a pain in the ass but useful for his thesis, American Foreign Policy is going to be boring, and his seminar on policy-making is going to be one of the best classes he’s ever taken. He’s also been hit on by at least two undergrads after one of Quinter’s lectures (one female, one male), discovered that his neighbors like to have really enthusiastic, screaming sex (good for them, but it’s annoying as fuck to listen to), and gotten drunk on shitty beer with two guys from the volleyball team he used to play on before he realized he couldn’t do that and write a thesis both.

Ah, grad school. 

By the time he has the small-group TA session the students have already had two lectures from Quinter, so Brad figures there’s no point in going easy on them. “All right,” he says, and raises his voice a little to get them to shut up. “Anyone not here for Discussion Group B of The Politics of Intervention can leave now. Otherwise, I’m Brad Colbert.” 

There’s a little shuffling, but nobody moves, so Brad leans back against the desk and crosses his ankles and says, “great, okay, good. So, here are the ground rules. You show up on time, you do the reading, and you come prepared to have a discussion, and we’ll be copacetic. You don’t talk, I _will_ notice, and that’ll count against you,” he says, and looks around the room. None of the students says anything. 

“Mostly I’m here to make sure you understand the readings and you’re getting something out of this education you’re paying good money for, though,” Brad says, and smiles, because he tries not to terrify the undergrads too unduly. “Quinter’s a good professor, and he’s fair, so you do the readings, you’ll be fine. Speaking of which, let’s have a discussion about the Snyder piece for today. Do you agree with his assertion that America is functionally an empire and is grappling with imperial overreach?”

And they’re off.

* * *

When Brad was fourteen, he got suspended from school for the third time, which meant an automatic disciplinary hearing. “I just don’t know what to do with you, Brad,” his dad said, voice heavy and rough with disappointment. “You’re a smart kid; what’s your problem? Why can’t you just settle down and play by the rules?”

Brad had been in history class and the teacher had said that Columbus was the first to make it to America. Brad had objected, and the teacher had berated him. Brad doesn’t remember what the guy had said, anymore, but he remembers the hot flush of embarrassment and the shock of visceral rage, the way he’d felt his whole body go tense. Brad wasn’t wrong, hadn’t been wrong, but the teacher hadn’t been willing to listen. 

He thinks about that, sometimes, holding office hours, letting the undergrads stammer and mumble over how confused they are so that he can suggest points they’re missing or explain yet again the more theoretical, statistics-based readings. He’s not a patient person, really, but he fakes it well enough. 

(His dad had said to him, back then, “Brad, this clearly isn’t working; if you can’t shape up, your mother and I are going to send you to military school to see if they can get you to shape up.” Sometimes he wonders about an alternate timeline where, instead of coming back with a counter-proposal that they send him to Friends Day and mustering his courage to argue that his problem was with a school system that felt like a factory, not with learning in general, and he wouldn’t act out if he were in a more intellectually-stimulating, creative environment—where instead he’d taken his father’s ultimatum as rejection and said “fuck it” to his parents’ expectations. He doesn’t know where he’d be, now, but it probably wouldn’t be here, working towards his Masters and writing a thesis on the use of military versus diplomatic responses in American foreign policy post-Vietnam.)

He meets Nate when Nate comes to his office hours, the second week of the semester. By this point he knows everyone in his section, by their names at least, if not their majors, but he hasn’t had a chance to really get a sense of them, yet. Mostly his office hours are quiet in the first weeks of the semester, anyway; things only kick up around midterms. 

Nate knocks on his door that second week, though, leans against the doorframe. “Mr. Colbert, Nate Fick,” he says, and sticks out his hand to shake. The tiny office that the TAs use is small enough that Nate can do this without having to cross the room. 

“Call me Brad,” Brad corrects. Nate is tall, with a lean runner’s body and short-cropped blond hair, and, Brad is curious to note, clothes that are just a little more formal than the standard undergrad frat-boy outfit without being overtly preppy: nice jeans, loafers, a button-down shirt under a v-neck sweater. Interesting. “What can I do for you, Nate? Come on in.”

Nate slides into the chair across from Brad’s desk. “I had some problems with the Gould readings,” Nate says. 

“Okay,” Brad says, gesturing him to continue. Usually at this point students confess to not quite understanding the argument of whatever article they’ve been reading, and usually it’s due to a lack of contextual knowledge. Not that Brad blames them, precisely—he’s been repeatedly startled by the difference between the education he got at Friends versus the education a lot of these kids got, at public schools or otherwise—but he often has to tread carefully to figure out how to give them some suggestions without insulting their intelligence too badly. 

“Well,” Nate says, “Gould focuses so much on hard power that he’s ignoring the way soft power shaped the exact military interventions he’s discussing.” 

Brad raises his eyebrows. “Uh huh,” he says, and Nate leans forward in his chair. “Tell me more.”

And, to Brad’s surprise, Nate does. Brad gets a five-minute discourse about the increasing political influence of multinational corporations in the post-WWII era and the way they’ve leveraged that political capital to encourage military intervention in the internal affairs of countries that haven’t been supportive of their business practices. The thing is, he’s not wrong; Gould has good points, but that’s a major problem with his analysis, and Quinter has assigned readings for next week that make that very case. It’s more perceptive than Brad had expected, or at least more engaged than he’s used to.

Brad upgrades his impression from ‘interesting’ to ‘intriguing.’ 

“Have you considered the ideological motivations behind making such arguments, Nate?” he asks. “Gould is a former policy advisor. What does he stand to gain by making reductive hard-power arguments?”

They talk for another twenty minutes before Nate excuses himself for track practice. “Thanks, Brad,” he says. “See you Monday.” 

“Sure thing,” Brad says.

* * *

Up to this point, he’d mentally marked Nate down as sharper than average, someone who could usually be counted upon to say something incisive but also someone who didn’t talk much in class. Brad doesn’t know what he was waiting for—some sign that Brad wasn’t an asshole? some proof of Brad’s intelligence?—but in the weeks following, Nate does an about-face and engages both with his classmates and with Brad.

Next time they’re in lecture, a kid (Holmes, Billy; English major) says that, yeah, the U.S. has a history of meddling in the selection of foreign leaders, but they only get involved to protect repressed local populaces. “But what about what Kinzer says about the U.S.’s direct involvement in actions to topple fourteen foreign governments in the last century?” Nate shoots back. “Chile? Guatemala? Nicaragua? You really think all of those were motivated by pure idealism?” 

The next time they’re in discussion, Brad says something cynical about Congress, and Nate quips, “The military doesn’t start wars, politicians start wars?” and Brad has to break his impassive façade to slant him a grin and say, “Westmoreland?” to see Nate’s self-satisfied look, his quirked eyebrow, his direct gaze. 

Nate turns out to be far above and beyond every other student in Discussion Group B. His first paper bucks the liberal anti-war trend that most of the student body seems to adhere to and makes a cogently-argued case for military intervention in foreign internal conflicts. Brad disagrees with the thrust of his argument, personally and politically, but the way Nate writes—clear, well-thought-out, elegant—nearly persuades him. At least for the amount of time it takes to grade the paper.

The thing is, Brad hasn’t dated since his brief fling with Cady. Barring a few drunken post-party hookups, he hasn’t bothered; a relationship would be nice, maybe, but he doesn’t have the time. In the next nine months, Brad has to take six classes, be a teaching assistant for two more, and research, write, and defend a ninety-page thesis. 

And, the other thing is, being bisexual makes Brad’s life a little harder. Brad has plans, political plans, and, yeah, the country’s made some progress since the ’80s, but he’s not wild about his chances at taking office if he’s got a record of having slept with men, and he doesn’t fool himself that he can keep it secret. 

But: Brad’s attracted to intelligence, to driven people, to people who can keep up with him, and—well. He keeps catching his eyes lingering on Nate during Quinter’s lectures, watching the focused look on his face as he makes comments that push the rest of the class to work harder. He likes Nate’s raucous laugh, likes the way he tips his chair back to teeter on the back legs in their discussion sections until he catches Brad’s exasperated glare and settles into a passable impression of a well-behaved student, until the next time someone says something idiotic, and then he rolls his eyes and snaps off a withering comment. It feels like flirting. Very intelligent, academic flirting, but flirting nonetheless, and—fuck, Brad is so fucked.

* * *

“There’s a guy in my discussion section,” Brad says to Ray, and then stops, because of all people to talk to about this, Ray is maybe not right one.

Ray’s eyes snap to Brad’s face. Ray’s maybe a little stoned, but Brad’s never actually noticed it affecting his reaction time any. “Uh huh,” Ray drawls. “Tell me more, Bradley, tell me more.”

Brad figured out he liked guys after a drunken evening when he and Ray traded sloppy kisses on Brad’s crappy Goodwill couch. He doesn’t remember how it happened, somewhere at the far end of a six-pack, just drunk enough that it seemed entirely reasonable that one minute they were drinking and sniping each other and listening to The Who and the next minute Brad had Ray’s tongue in his mouth. “This do it for you, Brad?” Ray had panted, and despite the beer, Brad had been shocked by the clarity of the thought: that yeah, it really did. 

Ray, it turns out, was not that into it. But never let it be said that Ray Person isn’t willing to give his friends a helping hand. 

It helped Brad figure some shit out, in any case.

“He’s in my discussion section,” Brad says, grudgingly. He fucking hates talking about his feelings, but thinking about Nate is getting distracting. He’s gotta do something to get him out of his head. “He’s on the track team and he reads _The Economist_ and _Foreign Affairs_ and he’s skewing the curve in my class.” 

“Oh man, homes, you want to bang him, don’t you?” Ray says, grinning, eyes wide and gleeful. “You should bang him. Call him to your office, tell him he’s been naughty, do a little teacher-student extracurricular activity if you know what I’m saying, and I think you do.” 

“Ray,” Brad says, exasperated. “I’m not going to bang him. I just have to buckle down and write my thesis and then I can graduate, all right? It’s just—frustrating.” 

Ray looks at him, knowingly, with that too-perceptive gaze he has. Fuck, Brad always forgets how observant Ray is, even while high. “Yeah, yeah, I know, you and your plan to take over the world. But I say go for it. Man can’t live on textbooks and misery alone, fuck. Listen to your Ray-Ray, homes. You can go back to becoming leader of the free world once you’ve gotten your dick sucked.”

Brad sighs. “Yeah, whatever. I’m gonna go to the library. You can let yourself out.”

* * *

He catches Nate watching him, eyes tracking Brad around the lecture hall instead of watching Quinter. Sometimes Nate quirks an eyebrow and gives him an amused smile. It feels like they have a secret. It feels like they’ve known each other for years.

* * *

The semester goes on. Brad writes two excellent papers for Money and Power, grades piles of shitty essays for Quinter, gets into an argument with the fucking inbred braindead jerkoffs he’s supposed to work on a group project with in his policy seminar, and reads approximately seven thousand articles for American Foreign Policy. He checks out piles of books, writes the intro and lit review for his thesis, and, once, falls asleep in the library. He goes out on one ill-advised date with the sister of one of the guys on his volleyball team in an attempt to forget about Nate. He goes to the gym. He hangs out with Ray.

 _Winter’s coming,_ he thinks, one day. There’s a bite in the air, the sky the weak watery gray of impending snow. He thinks about the first winter he was here, how eager he’d been, how everything had felt full of potential, of possibility. He thinks about how next winter, if all goes well, he’ll be in DC. _Get it together, Brad,_ he thinks.

* * *

In the end, he runs into Nate at a kegger, of all things: he’s there with the volleyball team, and Nate’s there with the track team. It’s at one of the shitty, falling-down frat houses on the eastern edge of campus, and the house is big enough and dim enough that he doesn’t see Nate until he’s several beers in.

And then he comes into the kitchen and there’s Nate leaning against the counter, all jeans and a white t-shirt and bright laughing eyes. 

“Hey, Brad,” Nate says. His voice is rougher than it usually is, a little hint of drawl there. “Good to see you, man.” 

They’ve never interacted socially. Nate comes to his office hours and they talk about neoconservative political rhetoric. Nate sits in his classes and shoots him what feel like smoldering looks. But they’ve never gone out, never gotten drinks, never seen each other like this. It doesn’t seem to faze Nate. “Yeah,” Brad says. “Uh. You too.”

Nate just grins. “I’m going to go smoke, keep me company?”

Nate weaves through the crowd, dodging flailing dancers and precariously-waving solo cups of beer, and ducks out onto the porch. Brad follows, his brain fuzzy from beer and the shock of cold air and Nate’s presence. 

The air outside is frigid, but it’s welcome after the humid funk of the party. Nate leans against the railing and Brad joins him, watches his capable hands as he flicks a lighter, the easy way he handles the cigarette, his obvious pleasure in it. “I didn’t know you smoked,” Brad says, when the silence feels a little too weighted. 

“Can’t, really,” Nate says, a rough-voiced murmur. “Not if I want to run track. I let myself make an exception, though, when it’s really worth it.” He gestures, offering, and Brad takes it; he doesn’t smoke either, but he doesn’t mind it. He puts his lips where Nate’s just were. Breathes.

“I don’t sleep with guys, either, generally,” Nate says, soft enough that Brad barely catches it. “Not if I want to do what I want to do. But sometimes—” he waves the hand with the cigarette, and Brad, throat tight, says: “—sometimes you make an exception?” 

“Yeah,” Nate says, eyes wide and steady on Brad’s face. “Sometimes I make an exception. How about you, Brad?” 

Brad swallows. His throat is dry. He doesn’t know what to say. “I—” he says, and stops. “I sleep with guys sometimes. I mean—I did. Once.” 

Nate breathes out, soundless, a gust of air. If Brad weren’t standing so close to Nate, he wouldn’t have felt it. “God,” Nate says. “And—do you—do you want—”

Brad’s throat hurts. “Nate. I can’t.” He steels himself, because if Nate can be brave enough to ask, he can be brave enough to give a real answer. “I want to. But—I can’t.” 

Nate steps back, just a pace. Brad feels the distance like a blow. “You can’t, huh?” he says, and grimaces, just visible in the dim light filtering from inside. “But you want to. I guess that’s something.” 

Brad doesn’t let himself lean closer, doesn’t let himself nudge at Nate’s shoulder. “If I were going to be a doctor, maybe, or a lawyer, or a professor,” he says. “If I were going to do anything else. But not if I’m going to go into politics.” 

Nate sighs again. “I should argue with you,” he says. “But I get it. I hate that I get it, but I do.” 

Brad feels the dejection in his shoulders, a release of the tension he’s been carrying around for months. “I kind of wish you would argue with me,” he confesses. “If it was anything like you are in class, you’d convince me.”

Nate smiles, fleeting. “Yeah?” he says. “I’ll take that compliment. But—” he pauses and studies Brad’s face. What he’s looking for Brad doesn’t know. “I won’t try, though,” he says, finally. “Because I want you to respect me, and I don’t think you would, if I did.” 

Brad sighs, and gives into temptation and steps closer to knock his shoulder against Nate’s, gently. “So, uh,” he says, “next year in Jerusalem?” He braces for confusion, not sure Nate will recognize the reference, but it feels appropriate: the same bittersweet mix of yearning and futility, the same longing. 

He should have known better, though. Nate smiles, a small private smile. “Yeah, Brad, okay,” he says. “I’ll hold you to that.”

* * *

They get through the last few weeks of class. In lecture, Nate’s subdued, the quiet version of himself who Brad saw at the beginning of the term. In discussion section, he’s silent. Brad writes a white paper on veteran health care for his policy class, writes an essay on the Iranian hostage crisis for his foreign policy class, writes a comparative analysis of campaign finance regulation in America and the EU for his money and power class. Brad writes the first chapter of his thesis and talks Ray down when he’s on some kind of uppers in a finals-induced panic. He grades papers for Quinter. He has Quinter check his grade for Nate’s, saying that Nate has become a friend of his. Quinter doesn’t blink. Nate gets an A.

In spring term, Ray is taking three media studies courses and one class called Outdoor Skills, of all fucking things. Brad watches the snow drift down outside his window and looks at the course catalogue. _Okay,_ he thinks to himself, _okay._ He marks down thesis credits plus three more: Advanced Policy Seminar 502, Policy-Making in the European Union, and The Military-Industrial Complex. He chooses an easy class to TA: Politics 101.

He thinks about it, sometimes, Nate’s boldness in saying something, Nate’s sad half-smile, his dark eyes. _Next year,_ he thinks, _next year,_ and it becomes a mantra. Someday, he means. Someday.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is bastardized from Fall Out Boy. 
> 
> Jack Snyder actually did write a piece called “Imperial Temptation” about America’s empire and Stephen Kinzer did in fact write _Overthrow_ about the fourteen countries the U.S. has overthrown in the last century, though they came out in 2003 and 2006, respectively. What do you want, accuracy in fanfic? *g* (I made up Gould entirely.)
> 
> Nate quotes General William Westmoreland. 
> 
> And I’m not actually a political scientist or an academic; I just play one on the internet occasionally.


End file.
